Go To The Bank (II)

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So I scheduled for Tuesday because you have to abstain for 48 hours before donating. Presumably that is 48 hours from ejaculating. I cannot imagine they would care if you fooled around to whatever degree as long as you stopped shy of climax. So it had to be Tuesday, as it was inconceivable that I could ford an entire weekend without a single orgasm of any sort. I mean, I may be noble and self-sacrificing and all, but even Ghandi climaxed on the weekends.

So Saturday was huge. As the last masturbatable day till Tuesday, it had all sorts of importance that other days had lacked. Which is funny, because in normal times it would not really be an issue. It is not an uncommon experience for me to wake up and go, ?oh hey, I haven?t masturbated in a week. How very odd.? Sometimes it just does not come up (haha) and you forget, and, amazingly, life goes on. But when it is forced abstention, it becomes a big imposition.

Sunday was fine, except for the way my sub at the cc did not show up and I had to drag myself in to take crisis calls (?you think YOU got problems? I can?t touch myself!?).

As I started to think about being a donor, I started to get excited about the possibilities. I stopped thinking of it as a research adventure and began doing the math. Two visits a week nets $120 spending money a month, with a bulk paycheck every three months of almost a thousand dollars. It pays just as well as having a roommate, only instead of bringing people into my house, I am making people outside of my house! How sweet is that?

Thoughts of fiscal gain carried me through Sunday and early Monday, but by Monday evening, I was keenly aware of deprivation, probably by virtue of having been focused on virtually nothing else for the last three days. I certainly think that was a key factor in making the not-supremely-pretty-but-accessible Christian K~ seem so alluring. And everything seemed so possible, y?know? Pent up demand felt empowering and embravening just like alcohol, only without the loss of hand-eye coordination.

Anyway, Tuesday morning rolls around without incident (and by ?incident? I mean ironically fated wet dreams), and I roll up to Swedish at around a quarter of eight in the morning (?Go to the bank!? reads the reminder on my PDA). I hop an elevator up to the seventh floor and take a right.

There are big frosted double doors with ?Reproductive Technologies? printed across them, but those are not for me and my ilk. No, us Anonymous Donors must skulk on down the hallway to the next door, an unremarkable regular door with a small address plate identifying it as ?720 ? Reproductive Technologies.?

I slip through the unremarkable door into an unremarkable hallway. No one is in sight. Here I am, up early in the morning, ready to masturbate in public, and there is not a soul around to take me up on the offer.

Walking down the short hall, there is a small bathroom and an interview room on my left, and, at last!, on my right what can only be a milking room! In my casual saunter by, I take in a largish raised couch looking really out of place in what would otherwise be a normal examining room.

Around the corner is the lab. I walk in, saying, ?knock knock? to attract attention.

?Oh, usually donors wait outside the [lab] door,? she says, shooing me back.

?Oops, sorry,? I apologize. It leads me to wonder how many times a day we apologize for things that were not our fault and were beyond our control? If anyone had been within sight of the door, I would have drawn their attention without intruding. But since no one was there, I had to go in. Ah well.

There was a short consent form for me to fill out, and then I was given a sealed envelope with the full (15-page) questionnaire that I would need for a second screening. The questionnaire was great; it wanted to know your SAT scores, family medical history (including a 5 page single-spaced disease list that if your family had ever suffered from you had to provide details about), personal details, and then funny essay questions that gave you two blank lines to answer ?What is your ultimate ambition in life??

Then I was given a specimen bottle (a six ounce cup with a screw (haha) cap) to do my dirty sinful business into, and directed back to the collection room that I had passed on my way in. Turns out that was the only room they had! I had thought there would be a battery of masturbation rooms, with a continuous stream of guys slinking in and out.

The next disappointment came (haha ? and I am going to stop flagging every word which can be read as an entendre, but you will have to trust that I am keenly aware of each as I write them, and each and every one gives me a giggle) when I locked myself into the pleasure chamber.

Where were the banks of TVs playing classic porn from the early 80?s? Where was the mood lighting? Where were the silk sheets? Where were the electric stimulation devices? Where were the libraries of print porn? Where was the quiet sexy music?

It was just a hospital room. Carpeted floor. Industrial couch with the e-z-clean tight-weave fabric. Dull white walls. A counter on one end with a stack of classic hospital sheets folded up and a bin underneath the counter to throw the soiled linens into.

In fairness, the light did have a dimmer switch.

I started rummaging the cabinets, because, well, because that is what I do. Finally, looking lonely sitting in the front-center of the top shelf in the center cabinet there was a small, sad stack of porn. Two Playboys, three Hustlers, and one Penthouse.

Playboy?!! Who over the age of 13 or 14 can masturbate to Playboy?

I double-checked the requirements, and sure enough, they were not looking for the brave little swimmers of 14 year-olds.

So I selected a magazine and started in on my dirty sinful business, and could have done quite an efficient job of it, too. No shyness about being aroused in public here, I guess!

But then I realized, wait a minute! I may never be back here. There is no reward for being efficient. So I slowed down and enjoyed the silliness of the situation. However, after taking my contemplative time for a few minutes, paranoia set in, and I started to wonder if maybe there wasn?t a secret timer running somewhere to make sure that Anonymous Donors did not enjoy their visit too much.

So I finally moved my little men into the cup. What I was not prepared for was the instant shame after the fact. ?Is that all? Is that enough? Should I go again? I know I can do more than that...? My poor brave troopers just did not look like an impressive army at the bottom of a 6-oz cup. I was deeply worried that it would not be enough to test.

But you cannot take the time to do it again, either, right? Because the first-rounders are like fishes out of water, pounding their little lives away on the sides of a plastic cup. So I sealed ?em up, straightened my clothes, put the cup in the brown paper lunch bag they had given me (which opens the door to all kinds of sitcom hijinks at the old shared refrigerator), and dropped it off in the bin.

And that was it. Walk in, sign a form, pleasure yourself, walk out. Amazingly simple.

Next: Thursday Results